


Without a Stark

by casuallyhuman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Buckle up folks, F/M, Lmao it’s another slow burn, Ramsay is His Own Warning, even I don’t know where this is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-09-28 17:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20429996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/pseuds/casuallyhuman
Summary: “But where will you go?” Theon asks after his horse is readied. “You can’t go to the North. Not if Jon’s dead. The Wall is no place for a lady.”Brienne, who’s holding the horse’s bridle, studies her, awaiting an answer; she’ll take her wherever she desires, to the ends of the world, if she asked it of her.Sansa won’t make her go quite that far.“I’ll go to my husband.” She says decisively.Theon looks at her strangely. “Ramsay?”Sansa shakes her head. “No, not Ramsay. My first husband.” Brienne smiles then, finally, as if understanding, and Sansa gives Theon a final hug. “To Essos.  To Lord Tyrion.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> LOL IM BACK. 
> 
> Warning for you, though: updates may not be as regular as The Promise of a Lion. I’m back in college (I go to a really hard one. And I also try to have a social life. And get good grades. It’s a struggle), so they may be every two weeks instead of every weeks. Hopefully this one will be shorter than my last, but I make no promises. 
> 
> I tried to take a longer break, but I honestly couldn’t. I love them too much. 
> 
> Anyway, just a few clarifications:
> 
> This doesn’t EXACTLY adhere to canon. I definitely fucked with the timeline a bit. But basically, this is kind of a what-if Theon stepped the hell up on Sansa’s wedding night, if Sansa thought Jon was dead, if Tyrion had already been with Daenerys long enough for word to get around. It’s a lot of what if’s, but the concept was so compelling to me I had to write it. Don’t dig that? Don’t read it. 
> 
> Besides that, I’ll attempt to stay as true to character as I can. I am used to writing post-Ramsay Sansa, though- so we’ll see. Anyway, enjoy!!

Sansa knows that Ramsay is strange.

When Myranda taunts her with stories about him, tells her of his cruelty, she isn’t completely certain she’s lying. It would make sense for her to; especially if she’s in love with him, as Sansa suspects. But it’s also clear that Ramsay isn’t all he appears.

She hates Theon, of course—despises him, really, for what he did to her family, and if Ramsay hadn’t already broken him to the shambles of a man he is now, she’d probably kill him.

Still, though—it’s odd. That Theon is the way he is. That he’s less of a man now and more of an animal. She’s wondered what Ramsay did to him to make him this way—suspects it’s nothing short of horrific, torturous, things a lady should never hear of. 

So, yes, she knows Ramsay’s strange. That he’s not a kind man—he’s not gentle like Tyrion, not someone her father would have agreed to match her with. There’s a cruelty in him, she suspects, but it isn’t quite the cruelty that she’d known in Joffrey. Where Joffrey was foul, arrogant, abrasive, Ramsay is sly. He’s smarter, that much is clear; he knows that she’s valuable, the key to the North and his rule.

So despite what he’s done, despite whatever terrible inclinations he may hold, she’s safe.

Because she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and without her, Ramsay is nothing.

She thinks these things as she’s walking by Theon’s side to her betrothed, whose face bears an evil smile he’s suppressed before that’s starting to slip through. It’s concerning enough that she hesitates when Roose prompts her, hesitates to agree to marry this man.

But as Lord Baelish had pointed out, this is her only chance to get her home back.

It’s not likely that she’ll find such a thing again.

Besides, it was Lord Baelish, whom she trusted. Who had smuggled her out of King’s Landing, had kept her safe in the Vale, had been a dear friend of her mother’s. Who had kissed her lips before he’d left for the capital. If nothing else, he cares for her, in some twisted way, and despite how odd he can be, he wouldn’t abandon her here to someone so awful as that.

She gathers her courage, takes a step forward, and finally lets the words fall from her lips:

“I take this man.”

-

The wedding feast isn’t as splendid or as extravagant as her first; the Boltons are no Starks, it’s true, but they’re of the North: they know winter is coming. They have roasted boars and sweet cakes, but that’s as celebratory as they get.

The whole affair feels rather somber to her. There are a few of the Boltons’ bannermen in the hall, but even drunk they’re too quiet, too bleak. She doesn’t know if it’s because of Stannis’ impending attack or because Roose Bolton is the most frightening man she’s ever met, but the men aren’t in the mood for a feast.

There’s not even a bedding, nor a call for one: Ramsay simply stands and offers her his hand, and the room falls silent as they take their leave, Theon a few paces behind him.

It doesn’t really hit her until that walk that it’s happened; that she’s a married woman. She was married before, of course, to Tyrion, but he never touched her, really, save to hold her hand. They didn’t even sleep in the same quarters in King’s Landing; he’d somehow arranged for them to keep separate chambers.

But that’s not happening this time; Winterfell doesn’t have the space that King’s Landing does, and Ramsay Bolton is not Tyrion Lannister.

Already, she’s felt his eyes roam her body. She’s heard such attentions can warm a woman, but all she’d felt was a shiver. No, he won’t forgo the consummation.

_That_ thought concerns her. She’d known, somewhere in the corner of her mind, that this would happen. In normal marriages, the wedding is consummated on the wedding night. The woman strips off her clothes, lies on the bed, and the man…. the man puts himself inside her.

Sansa knows little of the whole affair, really; she knows what she’s heard crude whispers of in court and what her septa had explained when she’d first flowered. Her mother had told her something of it before she’d left for the capital, but even that gave little _real_ information.

Then, her mother was supposed to be alive to explain this, wasn’t she?

She hasn’t noticed before, but they’ve arrived to their room. Ramsay stops, and Theon pushes the door open in front of them. Her husband gestures to the doorway, smiling, and she steps inside hesitantly.

She doesn’t know this room. She knows this hall, of course, knows all of Winterfell so intimately she’s sure she could still navigate it blindfolded. She thinks this particular set of chambers was used to accommodate guests.

She’s glad, at least, for that. She couldn’t bear it if she had to sleep in her parents’ bed with this man.

Ramsay follows her as she walks in, but the door doesn’t shut behind them. Theon hasn’t been dismissed yet, either—she’s noticed that he does almost nothing without Ramsay’s strict instruction, and this is no exception.

She looks to him as she finishes her survey of the room, clenching her hands together tightly so they don’t shake. He smiles. “Are you pleased, my lady?” 

She nods.

“Good. I want you to be happy.” He smiles again, the touch of cruelty curling at the edge of his lips as he steps forward, walks towards the bed. “My father said you’re still a virgin.” He says, conversationally.

Those words are crass enough that she lets her eyes dart in surprise to Theon, who still stands in the corner of the room. This isn’t a discussion one has in company, and it’s starting to concern her that Ramsay doesn’t seem to care. “Yes.” She says.

“Why?” He asks, stepping closer, eyes glinting. “Why are you still a virgin? Afraid of dwarves?” His teeth flash as he chuckles to himself.

“No,” She finds herself quick to say at the reminder of her last husband. He may have been a dwarf, but he was a good man, and she hopes reminding Ramsay of it will make this easier. “Lord Tyrion was kind, he was gentle. He never touched me.”

“You’re not lying to me?”

“No, my lord.”

“Lying to your husband on his wedding night…” He huffs an amused laugh. “_That_ would be a bad way to start a marriage.” He brings a hand up to brush her cheek, as if to soothe her, and the gentle touch works for a moment. She relaxes.

“We’re man and wife now,” He says. “We should be honest with each other. Don’t you think?”

She tries to convey her sincerity as she looks into his eyes. “Yes.”

He kisses her then, strokes her temple, and she sinks into it, for the briefest second, and manages a smile for him when he pulls away.

He smiles. “Take off your clothes.”

_That’s_ too sudden, and she looks at Theon, who still stands in the corner by the door. Thankfully, even _he_ understands that it’s time to leave them alone and turns to leave.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ramsay says loudly, and Theon halts in his steps as Sansa stares at her new husband, heart starting to pound in her ears. “You stay here, Reek. _You_ watch.”

Her breathing quickens and her mind whirs. _He means to—he wants Theon to _stay_?_

She hasn’t been able to register it yet, so when he looks back to her she’s still just staring at him and he shakes his head at her.

“Do I need to ask a second time? I hate asking a second time.” 

She was nervous enough about this, about laying with this man—but he wants her to strip, to _bare_ herself before Theon?

She turns from him so he can’t see the fear that she’s certain is starting to show in her eyes, struggles to keep her breath even. He’s not going to be gentle or kind—he’s going to take her like an animal, like those men had tried to do in the bread riot in King’s Landing. Maybe he’ll _enjoy_ her fear.

_I am Sansa Stark and I am home. _She tells herself, pulling shakily at the laces on her sleeves. The ones she’d threaded through painstakingly for this wedding, to look beautiful when she was made Lady of Winterfell.

Dimly, she registers the door shutting. She’s thankful to Theon for that, at least, because Ramsay hadn’t told him to, and she suspects her husband would’ve been more than happy for the entire castle to see whatever is about to happen to her.

He’s doing her a kindness before he watches Ramsay fuck her.

“Reek,” She hears him say, and she can’t believe she’d done this, that she didn’t _notice_, that she thought she’d be _safe_. “I told you to _watch_.” He pauses. “You’ve known Sansa since she was a girl. Now watch her become a woman.”

She can’t help her shaky gasp then, despite how hard she’s tried to keep her breaths calm, to not alarm him or give him a _reason_ to make this painful. She’s starting to think that it won’t matter anyway. He doesn’t need a reason.

Her eyes dart to the side table, to the bed, looking for a weapon, anything. She can’t overpower him by herself—she’s no fighter, never has been, not like Arya, and he’s a man grown.

She feels his hands settle on her shoulders and rip her dress down the back without preamble.

_It’s too late. _

His hands, which she’d only moments ago thought were soft, feel dirty now as they settle on her bare back, pushing her down towards the bed. She can’t help the sob that comes out of her mouth as her face meets the soft furs, as he rips her dress the rest of the way. She closes her eyes and buries her face in the blanket.

_I am Sansa Stark and I am home. _

His belt buckle clinks as he undoes it and she can’t help it, she opens her eyes in anticipation, clenches her fist in the furs. Behind her, fabric rustles and two hands grab her hips, reposition her, and she wants to scream but she _can’t_, she’s his wife now, he can do whatever he likes to her, she’d _agreed_ to this.

Something blunt and wet pokes her bottom, then down until it’s _there, _where no one has ever seen, let alone touched, and she _can’t_ do this, she _can’t, won’t, _he’s going to _take her_ in front of Theon—

There’s a loud thud behind her, and the pressure on her hips lessens and then falls away, along with Ramsay.

She gasps in relief, stifling her sobs as she turns slowly to see what Ramsay’s done.

But Ramsay is on the floor, and Theon is above him holding a lantern. He shakes, staring down at the body.

She hurries to get up, turning to face him so she’s not so… _exposed_. “Is he…” She says, hesitantly stepping closer.

“Dead?” Theon supplies, voice small. “I—I don’t know.”

There’s blood in Ramsay’s hair, and he’s at least _unconscious_. Sansa wipes her face with her hands and sniffs. “Give me that.” She holds her hand out.

Theon doesn’t move.

She’s not sure he _can_ move.

She goes to him and pries it out of his hands, then kneels next to Ramsay with it. “I am Sansa Stark,” She says, calmly, in case he can hear her. “And this is my home.”

With that, she brings the lantern down on his head, then again, and again, and again until her arms are tired and glass sticks out of his shirt and blood has turned her white dress red and her cheeks are wet with it.

She looks over at Theon, who’s sunken to the ground, arms around his knees, staring at Ramsay. “What are you doing?”

His eyes dart to her, then back to the body frantically. “He’ll punish me.”

“He’s _dead_.” She says flatly, rising. He swallows and shakes his head, and she rolls her eyes. “_Get up, _Theon. We have to go.”

He shakes his head again. “_Not Theon_. Reek.”

She groans in frustration and goes to the chest her clothes are stored in. Theon doesn’t pay any attention as she dresses, still rocking on his heels in the corner. When she’s finished, when she’s filled a flask with water and wrapped the bread from the table, she kneels beside him.

“I don’t care about you,” She says, just to make herself clear. “But you stopped him from…” She pauses, glancing back over at her husband’s body. “If you stay they’ll kill you. Are you coming with me or not?”

“He’ll punish me.” He says again, shivering.

She grabs his hair and forces him to meet her eyes. “He’s dead, you idiot. And you’re not Reek, you’re Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy. Ward of Winterfell and Eddard Stark. _Are you coming_?”

He finally, _finally_ meets her eyes and sets his jaw. He gives a nearly imperceptible nod and she sighs in relief as he stands.

“Good,” She hands him a cloak. “Now how do we get out?”

Theon takes it hesitantly. “Can’t go out the gate—they’ll stop us.”

“Then _how_?” She says impatiently, looking at the floor. “We need to leave now so we’ll have more time to get away once they’ve realized he’s dead.”

He follows her gaze and winces. “Over the side. Into the snow. Ramsay once threw a girl that way.”

“And she lived?”

He nods.

“Could she walk after?”

He nods again.

“Alright,” She pulls the hood over her head. “show me.”

\--

They sneak out easily. The Boltons don’t have guards posted inside the castle walls—just by the gate. The rest are in Wintertown, Theon says, and under the cover of night there’s no one to notice two hooded figures walking silently through the darkness.

They jump into the snow hand in hand. Sansa doesn’t think she’ll have so much as a bruise—there’s at least six feet of it, freshly powdered, brought in from a recent storm. They move quietly towards the trees, and it isn’t until they’ve reached the river that she feels safe enough to speak.

“We’ll go to Jon,” She says, looking down the river for a place to cross. “To the Night’s Watch. The Boltons can’t touch us there.”

Theon makes an odd noise and when she looks at him his head is hung low, eyes boring into the ground.

“What is it?” She asks him. They don’t have _time_ for this.

He folds his arms. “Can’t go there.”

“Why not?”

He won’t answer her, scuffing his foot against a rock.

“Theon,” She grits out. “_Why not?”_

“I heard them talking,” He says. “Ramsay and his father.”

“About the Night’s Watch?”

Theon sighs and nods, dirty hair tumbling over his eyes. “Jon’s dead, m’lady.”

She stares at him. No… Jon _can’t_ be dead. He’s at the Night’s Watch, Ramsay had told her he was Lord Commander. He was supposed to be _safe_ there.

He was all she had.

“No,” She feels the snow on her knees before she realizes she’s sunk to the ground. 

Theon hesitates before placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. He was a good man.”

She swallows. Her mouth feels like sand. “Where will we go?”

He sits beside her, and this time she knows he isn’t trying to answer because there isn’t one.

\--

They find a place to cross after that, having made an unspoken agreement to continue North until they think of somewhere else to go. The water is freezing, though it only comes up to her knees, and she argues with Theon about smoke for a while before relenting: they can’t start a fire for at least a day.

They’re walking the next afternoon when she hears it: voices.

She reaches out and stills Theon to be sure. He pauses, feet no longer crunching in the snow, and then she’s sure of it. A man complaining, loudly, and the rhythmic beating of hooves. 

“Colder than death up here,” The man says. “I don’t know why anyone would ever _live_ here when you can just go South.”

“Oh, do hush, Pod,” A woman—_a woman!_—admonishes. “If I’d wanted a noisy squire I would’ve picked a Lannister.”

This voice is familiar, somehow, though Sansa can’t quite place it. She grabs Theon’s arm silently, crouching down and moving closer to the voices.

“Sorry, m’lady,” The man says. “It’s just—can’t we start a fire yet? We’re nearly a day away from the Boltons.”

“Do you know what the Boltons would do to you if they found you?”

The man grumbles a little, then sighs loudly. “Skin me alive.”

“Skin you alive.” The woman echoes. “We wait until nightfall.”

Sansa can _just_ make out the horses as she peeks around the tree—and then the source of the voices comes into her sight. “_Oh_,” She breathes, smiling, and makes to step out.

Theon grabs her. “It’s not safe,” He hisses.

Sansa shakes him off of her. “I _know_ them.”

The hooves have stopped, and Sansa hears the distinct sound of a sword being drawn. “Who’s there?” Lady Brienne calls out firmly.

Sansa walks into the clearing, pulling back her hood. “Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Brienne softens at the sight, and her sword goes slack. “My lady—what are you doing out here alone?”

“I’m not alone.” Sansa says, and waves at Theon. He hesitates but steps out from behind the tree. “This is Theon Greyjoy.”

The squire makes a noise at that, and Brienne’s grip on her sword tightens. “Oh?” She says calmly, but Sansa can see the question in her eyes. _Shall I kill him?_

“He helped me escape Ramsay.”

Brienne glances at him and tightens her jaw, but nods. She meets Sansa’s eyes again and then kneels, laying her sword at her feet. “Lady Sansa, I offer you my services once again. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, should need be. I swear it by the Old gods and the New.”

She would offer herself _again_?

Sansa is no fool, and she glances at Theon, who nods. _Gods, can I even remember the oath? _“And I vow that’s you’ll always have a place by my hearth,” She starts. “And—” She hesitates.

“Meat and mead at my table,” Brienne’s squire helpfully supplies.

“Meat and mead at my table,” Sansa echoes. “and I pledge to ask no service of you that would do you dishonor. I swear it by the Old gods and the New. Arise.”

\--

“I saw your sister.” Brienne tells her that evening, after they’re far enough away that they can start a fire and roast a rabbit.

“Arya?” Sansa asks, startled. “She’s alive? Where is she?”

“She’s alive. I don’t know where.” Brienne sighs. “She was with a man—I don’t think he hurt her. She didn’t want to leave him, he didn’t want to leave her.”

“But you don’t know which way she went?” Sansa presses. She could go to her, could find Arya, and they could go… _somewhere_.

“I spent three days looking for her. She disappeared.”

“How’d she look?”

“She looked good,” Brienne says, creasing her brow. “She wasn’t exactly dressed like a lady.”

Sansa huffs affectionately. “No, she wouldn’t be.”

Brienne pauses, and her look is intense enough that Sansa drops her eyes to the ground. “What happened at Winterfell?”

_I married Ramsay Bolton. He tried to rape me. I killed him. I can still feel his blood on my hands. _

She doesn’t say that. “I should’ve gone with you when I had the chance.” She says instead.

“It was a difficult choice, my lady,” Brienne says softly, and Sansa doesn’t miss the way her gaze slides to Theon. “We’ve all had to make difficult choices.”

\--

Theon leaves, soon after that. He tells her he’ll go East, to his family—that he can’t belong to the Starks anymore, not after his betrayal. She feels a surge of affection for the man. He hadn’t killed her brothers, not really, and he’d betrayed Robb—but he wasn’t behind his death. He’d saved her from Ramsay, despite the strange conditioning he’d had before she’d arrived.

So she wishes him the best of luck, gives him a horse, food, water. Asks Brienne to give him some coin.

“But where will you go?” Theon asks after his horse is readied. “You can’t go to the North. Not if Jon’s dead. The Wall is no place for a lady.”

Brienne, who’s holding the horse’s bridle, studies her, awaiting an answer; she’ll take her wherever she desires, to the ends of the world, if she asked it of her.

Sansa won’t make her go quite that far.

“I’ll go to my husband.” She says decisively.

Theon looks at her strangely. “Ramsay?”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, not Ramsay. My first husband.” Brienne smiles then, finally, as if understanding, and Sansa gives Theon a final hug. “To Essos. To Lord Tyrion.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sits back down on the hard chair at the top of the stairs and huffs, waving for the Unsullied soldier standing post to let in the next person.
> 
> “State your name and grievance.” Missandei says kindly to the cloaked figures who walk in.
> 
> The first lowers her hood and steps forward, and Tyrion can’t help but startle at the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L O L. Y'all. I deadass just set off the fire alarm for my dorm. 
> 
> (I'd like to say, on the record, that I was cooking correctly, and the fan was on. There was not an actual fire, but there was apparently too much smoke. The ventilation is trash. So am I, but,,,, it's cool. I'd just like your thoughts and prayers, considering I may be charged $500 for making the fire department come out tonight. It's a good time.) 
> 
> So if you were wondering how my life is going... that's about right. 
> 
> Anyway, have this chapter. It's okay, probably, though the story did start moving faster than I'd like. But maybe that means it won't drag on for 20 long chapters?

Tyrion is beginning to fit in, he thinks.

Not completely, of course—he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly _belong_ here, truly be friends with the somber Unsullied commander, with Daenerys’ kind, trusted advisor. They’re far too different for all _that_.

But still, they’re getting along well enough. They have to, really, in Daenerys’ absence—if they don’t, the fragile peace they’ve established in Meereen will fall to pieces. He’s worried over the place for too long to allow that to come to pass.

He likes them, despite their differences. Knows that they’re loyal beyond belief, that he won’t have to worry about unexpected backstabbing like he constantly did in Westeros. He admires it—wishes he could possess the same loyalty. Wishes someone would give such loyalty to him.

But despite his status, he is still the Imp. Is still (quite literally) looked down upon, laughed at, disrespected. He won’t ever inspire such loyalty, such love. He’s accepted it.

His time in Daenerys’ court has been short, it’s true, and most of it has been in her absence. He knows little of her from his own experience but is starting to trust her based solely on the character of these people she calls her friends. Is starting to think that he made the right choice. That maybe it’s time to believe in something.

That’s why he sits here now, hearing grievances from peasants and farmers and even _masters_—because he’s growing more and more sure that Daenerys is different. That she might be the one to change the world.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he stands to stretch after speaking with a goat farmer for over an hour about his bastard sons’ right to inherit. The process of ruling isn’t as fun as he remembers.

“Are you quite alright?” Missandei asks him. There’s a lilt of humor in her voice: she’s making fun of him.

(Let her. At least she’s a pretty young girl and not a bloodthirsty warrior with a dislike for Lannisters and a large sword.)

“Fine, thank you. Just feeling a little stiff.”

Grey Worm doesn’t laugh—Tyrion doesn’t actually think he’s ever seen him laugh—but there’s a tilt to his lips that could _almost_ qualify as a smile if one were watching closely enough.

He sits back down on the hard chair at the top of the stairs and huffs, waving for the Unsullied soldier standing post to let in the next person.

“State your name and grievance.” Missandei says kindly to the cloaked figures who walk in.

The first lowers her hood and steps forward, and Tyrion can’t help but startle at the sight.

“Lady Brienne?” He’s only met her once, in King’s Landing, but she wasn’t the sort of a woman a man forgets.

“Wait, I’m with them!” A voice yells, and then a man stumbles in the door. He’s wearing a cloak too, but his hood is down, and Tyrion grins at the sight of the tousled brown hair, the round jaw. 

“_Podrick_?”

“Lord Tyrion,” Brienne finally acknowledges, and though she’s the one at the bottom of the stairs, her hard look makes him feel as though their roles are reversed. “I’ve come with my companions fleeing persecution. If you are willing, we ask that you harbor us here to serve the Dragon Queen until her return.”

He glances at Podrick, who stands behind Brienne, hands folded behind his back, a knowing smile on his face, and then to the third figure, who remains hooded. “For you, my lady, and Pod, I believe that can be arranged. However, I cannot in good faith agree to house someone whose identity remains a mystery. Would your other companion care to be introduced?”

Brienne’s face tightens, but she turns and whispers to the figure. Podrick seems to be trying to tell him something, but he’s rather terrible at miming. It doesn’t matter anyway; the conversation is short. Brienne turns back. “Perhaps they could do so in a private audience with your lordship?”

Tyrion doesn’t particularly care, but a look at Grey Worm gives him the feeling that he isn’t quite trusted enough to leave the room with them. He sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe my friends here would appreciate that. Be assured that those in this room can be trusted, however; I’d trust them with my life and yours.”

Brienne turns again, as if to again converse with the person in the cloak, but she doesn’t get the chance. The figure holds up a slender gloved hand, halting her movements, and steps forward to the bottom step.

Tyrion looks at the hooded woman—yes, he’s sure now, it’s a woman—and carefully stands, stepping down a few steps until they’re only meters away. She’s still looking at the ground, and her hood remains up so that he can’t make out her face.

“You have my word,” He tries again. “I will not allow harm to come to you if you are a friend, as Lady Brienne says.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and the hands raise to the hood before lowering it.

It’s—_it’s Sansa fucking Stark_.

He stares, slack-jawed, at his wife’s nervous face.

“Hello, my lord.”

\--

The journey to Essos was long.

Sansa thought she knew what a long journey was like; after all, she’d travelled a month from Winterfell to King’s Landing once before.

That was, however, from the comfort of a wheelhouse. This one was decidedly _not_.

They rode for a day before she started to feel it; her backside, her back, her legs: everything _hurt_. She didn’t want to complain, because Brienne and Podrick were risking their lives to protect her, but after three days she cried out in the night when she rolled onto her back and it was no longer a secret.

She didn’t exactly admit it, but the older woman definitely knew; from that day forward they took four breaks a day instead of two and kept a slower, steadier path.

It hadn’t helped that they couldn’t take the Kingsroad for three days for fear of being recognized; the Boltons were offering a prize of 100 dragons for anyone who brought her alive. The paths off the smooth road were rocky and hard to climb, and they all breathed a sigh of relief when they finally rode the Kingsroad again.

Sansa didn’t particularly want to pass the capital, even a few days’ ride away; she’d tried to convince Brienne to find a port in the West to sail from to Meereen—Littlefinger had said before he’d left that Tyrion had found favor there with the Dragon Queen—but the other woman had been insistent.

“No one will think you’re in the south. Besides, this way will cut away two weeks of sailing. Believe me, my lady, this is better.”

It was rather difficult to argue with someone who was taking you halfway across the world.

They passed King’s Landing without incident, true to Brienne’s word, and made it to Storm’s End within a month of their departure.

No one there even gives them a second glance; they’d bought cloaks long ago, and no one questions it with the weather cooling. They procure a passage to Slaver’s Bay, along with a cabin room, for a price Brienne determines is a steal.

The warrior shoves a bundle into Podrick’s arms once they’re onboard. “I’ll sleep in the Lady Stark’s room, you’ll sleep outside.”

He offers no complaint, and it’s not long before Sansa Stark is, for the first time in her life, leaving Westeros.

\--

Sansa fights the urge to wring her hands now, forces herself to stand tall under Tyrion’s stare. Under the strangers’ stares.

It takes him a moment to recover—apparently he’s quite shocked—before Tyrion speaks. “Sansa?”

She nods once, trying to summon up any energy she has left to appear confident. The rest of the journey here had been long, too—she hadn’t been sick for the entire month, as Podrick had, but the seas hadn’t been kind to her, either.

“I—” Tyrion takes another step closer. “What are you doing here? Last I heard you were in Winterfell.”

She shuts her eyes at the reminder and has to make herself to look back at him. “Unwillingly, my lord. I was given to the Boltons by Littlefinger.”

“Unwillingly? I thought you were to wed the Bolton boy?” He looks terribly confused. He has a right to be. Sansa only hopes he’ll be smart enough—be kind enough—to keep to her tale. 

“But I couldn’t marry Ramsay,” She says, biting her lip and glancing at the onlookers still hovering near the throne. This was the test. “Not when I’m still your wife.”

Ever astute, her husband doesn’t miss the dart of her eyes and his eyes narrow. It’s only a beat later that he nods sharply. “I’d only thought you’d desire to disown a traitor to the realm, my lady.”

She nearly sags in relief at his words: he’s not going to give her away. “You should know I have no love for your father and less for Joffrey, should the rumors prove true, that you did kill them. I am loyal to my husband, not a realm corrupted by evil and incest.”

The words have the effect she’d hoped on at least one of their onlookers; the dark-skinned woman’s face relaxes a fraction. Tyrion clears his throat, reminding her not to let her gaze linger too long. “I am glad to hear it, dear wife,” He glances up behind him for a moment, but if there’s a silent conversation, it’s certainly not one Sansa can decipher. He turns back and offers a tight smile. “You must be exhausted from the journey.”

She grips her cloak. “Yes. I confess, it’s been a fortnight since I slept on a mattress.”

He _tsks_. “That simply won’t do. Grey Worm, do you believe you could arrange an escort for my wife and her companions to suitable sleeping quarters?”

Sansa follows Tyrion’s gaze to the top of the dais, where the man and woman are exchanging a prolonged contemplation. It’s a heavy moment, but finally the two nod to each other; Grey Worm speaks in a language Sansa doesn’t understand and the guard by the door comes towards them.

“Dust Moth will take you to rest.” The woman says kindly.

Sansa can’t help but look to Tyrion for confirmation and he nods them on. “I will visit you later this evening.” He promises.

She manages a smile. “Thank you, my Lord. Brienne, Podrick,” She turns to her sworn shield and her squire, “shall we?”

\--

Tyrion _probably_ should’ve mentioned Sansa when he was regaling the story of his escape from King’s Landing. He realizes that now.

He only wishes he’d realized that sooner.

“Does her Grace know?” Missandei demands, arms crossed. “Does she know that you abandoned your wife in Westeros after you only narrowly escaped _execution_?”

“I didn’t _abandon_ her.” He protests, but Missandei has a glare fixed on him that’s starting to make him think his words are futile. “She was safe. She left the city after Joffrey’s death for her own protection.”

Her eyes narrow. “Her own protection? Did she not just say that she was being _forced_ to _marry_ in Westeros?”

He wants to explain that she had been forced to marry _him_ to begin with, that he’d thought she’d perhaps found happiness after her disgusting husband had disappeared, solving her problems, but he has a feeling Sansa won’t be allowed to stay much longer if they start talking about the validity of the marriage.

Worse, he’s quite certain that she only sought him out because she had nowhere else to go. _That_ thought is a bit terrifying.

Still, he’d _really_ like to know why.

“Something clearly went wrong.” He grits out. “I’d have to speak to her myself to find out what that was, wouldn’t I?”

“Why did you not say you have wife?” Grey Worm asks suddenly from his quiet corner.

Tyrion closes his eyes, feigning frustration. “As I said, I wasn’t sure she’d want to retain our marriage. I thought that perhaps she’d found someone she cared for—I only wanted her to be happy.”

“Does she not care for you?” Missandei asks, and Tyrion wants to roll his eyes.

_No, of course not_. _She only sought me out because I refused to rape her on our wedding night, so she now believes that I have a kind heart. _

(He’s _doesn't_, but he’s not evil, either.)

“I believe she does.” He tries.

“Then why should she marry again?” Grey Worm asks.

These two _really_ don’t trust him.

“I am a traitor to the realm. If I were to go back to the continent today, I’d be either kidnapped and then executed or relieved of my head on sight. If you were married to such a man, wouldn’t _you_ try to find a new husband?”

His logic is rather sound, and the two are silent for a long moment after. He walks to the table and grabs the decanter, praising the gods that he’s managed to talk himself out of this one. “So, it appears my wife is far more loyal than I thought and far more suicidal, if she travelled all this way for me. But if you want to make her leave, send the _noble_ Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell into the streets…” He gestures with his cup. “By all means.”

They stare at him, clearly considering his words; considering what they mean for them, what they mean for Daenerys, for the Iron Throne. He can see it: the moment Missandei relents, the moment Grey Worm sees _her_ relent and does the same. 

Tyrion's lips quirk before he takes a sip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? 
> 
> (Literally anything?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa doesn’t mean to fall asleep, really, she was only testing the bed for comfort, and it’s mid-afternoon, but before she knows it she’s awakened by the rustle of cloth being pulled over her.
> 
> She blinks the sleep away from her eyes and sits up, pulling the furs to her chest as Tyrion comes into her view. “M’lord?”
> 
> Her husband’s brow knits as he hushes her. “Go to sleep, my lady. We’ll speak in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah, I know. It's been like three weeks. I'm sorry. I promise, I feel more guilty than you do angry. (Though that guilt may be outweighed by the guilt I have about not studying for the test I have tomorrow morning or writing the next 2000 words of the essay due tomorrow night. It's just guilt all around, honestly.) 
> 
> Also... this chapter doesn't hit 2000 words. So sad boi hours. 
> 
> BUT-- we do get to see our babies interact. In fact, this entire thing is Sansa being awkward and Tyrion trying to be nice. So yay? 
> 
> Anyway, there may be an update soon-ish. I have a 4 hour car ride to get through next Thursday, so we'll see if I have anything for you then.

Sansa realizes quickly after the odd soldier (Dust Moth, the woman had called him?) leaves her alone that the “suitable sleeping quarters” Tyrion had requested were, in fact, _his_ quarters.

She’s clued in first by not one, not two, but _three_ separate wine decanters.

Then, of course, there’s the step stool by the bed, the nightdress thrown haphazardly thrown on a settee, and the frankly ridiculous number of books littering the tables. Her husband had never been particularly organized, and she’d noticed _that_ even when he’d had a small army of manservants for his every whim.

She discards her cloak and gloves and folds them neatly across the back of a chair, eyeing the large bed taking up much of the room. It’s unmade, too—she supposes the maids either haven’t come yet or don’t bother with her husband’s room.

_He’s not your husband yet_.

She takes a deep breath. It’s true—he’s not her husband yet. Not while their marriage remains unconsummated. She means to change that.

Sansa doesn’t _mean_ to fall asleep, really, she was only testing the bed for comfort, and it’s mid-afternoon, but before she knows it she’s awakened by the rustle of cloth being pulled over her.

She blinks the sleep away from her eyes and sits up, pulling the furs to her chest as Tyrion comes into her view. “M’lord?”

Her husband’s brow knits as he hushes her. “Go to sleep, my lady. We’ll speak in the morning.”

He turns then, as if to go, and her heart starts to race. _He can’t leave!_

“Wait!” She reaches out to stop him and catches his hand.

He stops in his steps, looking down at where their hands meet, and she blushes but doesn’t release him. He can’t leave her alone through the night—not in this strange castle with all these strange people.

“Where are you going?” She presses.

“To find other sleeping arrangements,” He says slowly. “I apologize—I didn’t realize they’d place you in my rooms. It’s the custom here.”

She grips his hand tighter. “No—it’s alright. Actually, I…” She swallows. “I’d prefer if you’d stay.”

His confusion is rather evident at that. “In here?”

She nods. “Please. I just—Brienne is down the hall, but I’d feel better if… if you were here too.”

He just stares at her for a long moment. She wishes she knew him well enough to tell what he’s thinking.

“Very well.” He says gruffly, releasing her hand. It feels colder without it. “I’ll take the settee.”

He’s pulled his boots off and started to arrange furs on the settee before she realizes what he’d said, so relieved that he’d agreed. “You _can_ sleep in the bed.” She says, standing, exhaustion forgotten. “It’s your room, and…” _Say it, Sansa_. “I’m _your_ wife.”

He pauses at that, pillow clutched to his chest. It takes him a moment to recover. “That’s not necessary.”

She clutches at the fabric by her hip. “I think it is.”

He sighs, seemingly in frustration, and tosses the pillow back onto the bed. “I don’t expect you to _lie with me_ because I behaved like a decent person for once in my life. Go back to sleep.”

His chivalry only strengthens her resolve. She straightens. “I am your _wife_, my lord. Or I should be. It’s well within your rights—and I am not opposed to it.”

Even in the dim light, she can see the suspicion in his green eyes. She doesn’t exactly know what she expects him to say—perhaps something crude to unsettle her so he doesn’t have to actually _talk_ to her, or maybe an agreement to her proposition—but his next words startle her.

“Why are you here?”

She tightens her grips on the furs. “I told you—”

He raises a hand to stop her. “I know what you _told me_. You know me too well to believe I’d accept that you left Westeros and travelled months to _Meereen_, of all places—which, by the way, was a terribly dangerous idea—because of an affection for a false husband who happens to be a _dwarf_. _Why are you here?_”

Her mouth feels exceptionally dry in that moment and she swallows, wishing she’d thought to ask for water earlier. “Because my family is dead, my lord.”

She thinks she sees a hint of surprise in his eyes. “Not all of them, surely?”

“Perhaps not my sister, Arya,” Sansa says slowly, sitting back down on the bed so she can meet his eyes. “She’s wandering the country. But the rest of them.”

“Even Jon Snow?”

She nods. “Ramsey received word of it. Betrayed and killed by his own men.”

It’s impossible to miss his unsteady exhale. A pause, then: “I’m very sorry to hear it, Lady Stark. I liked your brother.”

She hasn’t really heard a condolence for it, yet, and the words make her shudder. Make it all the more real, make her face heat and eyes burn. “So you see, my lord, I truly have no where else to go. You were kind to me in the capital, so I’d hoped—even though I don’t deserve it—that perhaps you’d help me again.”

When she dares to meet his eyes again, they’re fixed on her. “Lady Brienne mentioned you were fleeing persecution,” He says slowly. “What happened?”

_That’s_ the question she’d been anticipating that she’d really rather not answer. Still, if he’s to be her husband, to take her in, he deserves the truth. She has to give him at least that.

She picks at the fur; she’s definitely not brave enough to meet his gaze now. “What you heard about Ramsay Bolton and I was true. We were to be wed. I agreed to it, for Winterfell. So I could be there in case Arya or Jon was alive, somewhere.”

“But?” Tyrion prompts quietly.

She bites her lip. “But Ramsay was cruel. Evil, really; I’d heard tell of it but didn’t believe it. I was stupid, trusting Littlefinger. We were wed in the Godswood—” At this she glances at his face, looking for signs outrage. Finding none, she continues. “—but our marriage hadn’t been properly annulled in the Faith of the Seven, anyway. Littlefinger had said we could do that later, since we were marrying under the Old Gods.”

He doesn’t look angry when she looks again, just surprised. “So you were forced to marry him? I had thought the Old Gods needed bridal consent.”

“They do. I still didn’t really know when we were wed. It was—” She swallows. “I didn’t find out until that night.”

“That night?” Tyrion asks carefully. His face gives little away, but the tone of his next words betray a hint of anger. “Did he—”

He doesn’t say _rape you_, which she appreciates, instead letting her fill the silence.

Still, she hesitates. “I was ready to perform my wifely duty, I admit. But then he—he was going to have Theon _watch_, and I couldn’t—”

She’s been keeping it together rather admirably until this point, even before they’d gotten to Meereen, so it’s a surprise to even her when she chokes out a sob instead of finishing her sentence.

From what she remembers of Tyrion, he doesn’t usually attempt to console physically; he had, once, after her mother and Robb were killed, but she could barely even interpret its meaning through her grief. Besides that instance, besides her wedding day—Sansa doesn’t think he’s ever touched _her_.

She didn’t even notice him seating himself beside her on the bed, but she definitely notices when he hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes.

She sniffs and tries to wipe away her tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

She lets herself lean into him and does her best to speak. “He was horrible, and he was going to do it, and I couldn’t stop him. But Theon—Theon hit him, and he fell off me, and then I _killed_ him with the lantern and—and—”

“You killed Ramsay?”

She stills. “Yes.”

He breathes a sigh (of relief?) and gently rubs her back. “Good.”

_That_ wasn’t what she was expecting with a murder confession. “Good?”

“Good.” He confirms. “Men like him don’t deserve the air they breathe. I only wish he’d met a worse fate before he ever laid eyes on you.”

She straightens and wipes her nose. “I wouldn’t have done it, you know—if he hadn’t have told Theon to stay. I know my duty as a wife.”

She feels him stiffen at her words, feels his hand still high on her back. “Sansa…”

“_Tyrion_,” She says, willing herself to look stronger than she feels. “That can’t ever happen to me again. _Never_, you understand? If I could be your wife, in truth—”

He shakes his head and his hand slips from her shoulder. “No.”

She stares at him as he gets off the bed, grabs a stray linen that had fallen off the mattress. Blood rushes through her ears.

“What do you mean _no?_ I’m _asking_ you for this, I _want_ this.”

He _hums_ at her as he makes his way back over to the settee he’d started arranging earlier. “You don’t.”

_“I do.” _She says firmly.

He flicks a glance at her, but otherwise appears disinterested in the conversation. It only makes her more angry.

He sits and shucks his boots. “You’re welcome to stay here under my protection, and believe me when I tell you that no harm will come to you if you do as I say. But I will not lie with you, my lady. Now _go to sleep_.”

She’s too shocked, too embarrassed, to do anything but stare at her husband’s figure in silence as he douses the last candles and makes himself comfortable under the furs.

Despite her resistance, eventually she has no choice but to follow the order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor bby Sansa, amiright?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion wakes up the next morning to the sound of a door slamming.
> 
> He groans at the sound, squinting against the sunlight pouring from the windows and pulling the furs over his face. “Who’s there?”
> 
> A feminine voice replies in Valyrian. He has no idea what it says.
> 
> He sighs and rolls over, letting the furs slip off his shoulders as he sits up and scans the room for the perpetrator.
> 
> It’s a thin native woman, a basket clutched to her chest as her gaze darts between him and his bed.
> 
> Ah—his bed.
> 
> He’d nearly forgotten about Sansa. She’s sitting up too, presumably also awakened by the noise, and the horrified look in her eyes as she stares at the (cleaning?) girl by their door makes him believe their next conversation won’t be pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know I don't owe this to you or anything, but I'm still sorry it's been almost a month. Y'all are always so supportive, commenting all the time, and I wish I could be as consistent I was with PoL. 
> 
> Still, I think you'll like this one. I did. :)
> 
> (ALSO: HAPPY HALLOWEEN!)

Tyrion wakes up the next morning to the sound of a door slamming.

He groans at the sound, squinting against the sunlight pouring from the windows and pulling the furs over his face. “Who’s there?”

A feminine voice replies in Valyrian. He has no idea what it says.

He sighs and rolls over, letting the furs slip off his shoulders as he sits up and scans the room for the perpetrator.

It’s a thin native woman, a basket clutched to her chest as her gaze darts between him and his bed.

_Ah—his bed. _

He’d nearly forgotten about Sansa. She’s sitting up too, presumably also awakened by the noise, and the horrified look in her eyes as she stares at the (cleaning?) girl by their door makes him believe their next conversation won’t be pleasant.

He clears his throat. “Did you come to clean?”

The young woman finally fixes her eyes on him. _That_ she understands. “Clean—yes. And dress.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out a flimsy piece of silk. It takes him a moment to realize that she means to put the tiny slip of fabric on _his wife_ and call it clothing.

He glances at said wife, trying to read her for _anything_ (enthusiasm? disgust?), but comes up sorely lacking. He sighs. “If she likes it, I suppose it’ll be alright. But she might prefer something a bit more… modest.”

The girl stares at him blankly.

He points to the dress she holds and then to his own chest, gesturing to his shirt. “More fabric. To cover, here. And here.” He points to his back.

She only shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“It’s alright, Tyrion.” Sansa says, slipping out of bed.

He has to avert his eyes from her form, now covered only in a shift (_when had she even done that?_). “Are you certain, my lady? I’m sure I could ask Missandei to find you something else—”

“No, no,” She dismisses him, walking to the girl and pulling the silk out again. “The weather’s too warm here for Northern sensibilities, anyway. I’ll have to get used to it.”

He can’t really tell her _no_, since his main argument was going to be that _she’d_ prefer to be fully dressed. If she has no objections, the only thing he has left to say is the truth—that this may help him keep his hands _off_ her—and that simply won’t do.

“Alright.” He replies, trying to sound as though he doesn’t care. “Give me a moment to dress, and I’ll leave you alone.”

His wife isn’t even paying attention, she’s just fingering the colored silks from the basket. She always _had_ liked pretty things.

He finds a shirt and trousers as fast as humanly possible, sliding them on behind the partition before heading for the door to make a hasty exit. “I’ll see you tonight.” He mumbles, and she barely gets the chance to acknowledge his words before he shuts the door behind him.

\--

Considering that Tyrion usually has a packed schedule, he counts on _not_ seeing Sansa until he returns to their room—actually, he debates even that, considers staying late in his office and working yet again on their increasingly difficult Son of Harpies situation until she’s asleep.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see her—it’s that he has a feeling she’ll be… distracting. Tyrion’s given up whoring entirely, now, and even without his beautiful wife sleeping in the _same room_ as he, his self-control is wavering. He’s unlikely to do anything untoward, of course, but he’d really prefer that he doesn’t give himself the chance.

So, he plans to avoid Sansa—and her potentially damning wardrobe change—as long as possible.

His day, however, is slow. Slow enough that he agrees to dinner with Missandei and Grey Worm, not even considering that they may not be dining alone.

“How many patrols today?” He asks Grey Worm absentmindedly as they near the Council Room.

“Seven. None attacked.”

“Maybe they left.” Tyrion muses.

“They did not leave.” Grey Worm says, not understanding.

Tyrion isn’t going to explain—Missandei’s already begun—but speech leaves him anyway when he catches sight of the lady sitting at the table.

She’s facing away from them, but he can’t miss her—not with that hair. It’s up in braids (_gods help him_), leaving nothing to cover her mostly-bare back, pale and smooth and she must have heard them enter because she’s standing and _oh, he’s fucked_.

“My lord.” She says in greeting when she catches sight of him, dipping her head.

“My lady,” He manages, somehow keeping himself from staring at her chest, which, like her back, has more skin on display than not. “I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

“I sent for her.” Missandei says, brushing past Tyrion to take the seat by Sansa.

Good—if _he_ sat beside her he might do something stupid, like try to kiss her hand. 

“I know there’s not much to do _inside_ the pyramid,” Missandei’s murmuring softly to Sansa as Tyrion pointedly makes his way to the other side of the table with Grey Worm.

“Oh, that’s alright,” Sansa answers as she sits. “I spent most of the day settling into the accommodations, anyway. Thank you for the dresses.”

“You’re very welcome. I thought this one would suit you,” The other woman replies, running a finger along the fabric hanging loosely by his wife’s shoulder.

She smiles brightly. “It’s beautiful.”

Tyrion pours himself some wine. He has a sinking feeling he’ll need it.

“Lady Brienne!” Sansa exclaims, standing as another guest joins the table.

Tyrion stands as well on reflex, darting a glance over the other woman. They’d managed to find clothes to cover _her_.

“Are you well? Where’s Podrick?”

“Outside, my lady,” Brienne says, brow only lifting slightly at Sansa’s appearance. “He wanted to see the city—he’s been gone all day.”

Sansa’s smile dampens a touch at that. _Perhaps _she_ wants to see the city?_

“Lady Brienne is the last to join us, if we’re ready to eat?” Missandei says politely in the lull.

“Yes, of course.” His wife takes a seat, and the rest of the party follows.

\--

Tyrion has made a terrible mistake.

He realizes that quickly, as soon as Sansa tries to start conversation and he realizes that though his _hands_ couldn’t get him in any trouble from across the table, his eyes are a different story.

“Has your day been pleasant, my lord?” She asks over her soup, and he has to actually _look at her _when he answers, which makes the speaking bit far more difficult.

“Pleasant enough,” He says, struggling to keep his eyes from her décolletage. “A little dull, really, with how busy it’s been.”

She keeps on for a few minutes, trying to talk to him, but soon enough Brienne takes her attention. Tyrion thinks that’s a good thing, at first, until he realizes that he now doesn’t have even speech to keep him distracted from her bare skin.

(Because by the gods, she has beautiful skin, pale and soft, and he’d once been plagued by shameful dreams about what her breasts might look like under those thick dresses she used to wear, but now he can see nearly _everything_, and he’s starting to hate himself more than he has in a while.)

Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice that someone else is starting to hate him over their dinner until Brienne very pointedly clears her throat. He jerks at the sound, guilty looking up at the source.

She glares at him for a moment, arching a brow. He doesn’t bother trying to hold her steely gaze, instead returning his eyes to his plate. Perhaps, if he’s lucky, he won’t have to look up from it the rest of the night.

He does, of course, and every time his wife speaks to him he has to remind himself not to leer.

Between Brienne’s death glare and his own struggling self-restraint, he’s beginning to worry that he may not make it to see the next day by the end of the last course.

As soon as he finishes with the dessert (if he weren’t so preoccupied, he might’ve actually enjoyed it), he rises abruptly. “Please, excuse me. I have business to attend to in the library.”

Missandei knows he’s lying and raises a brow; gods bless her, she says nothing.

Brienne, however, has no such qualms. “What sort of business? Not too urgent, I hope. I’d wanted to have a word with you, Lord Tyrion.”

He clasps his hands together, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his wife. “I suppose we could speak for a moment when you finish.”

Brienne places her linen on the table and stands. “Lovely. I’m finished now.”

He fights the urge to groan, instead motioning to the door. “Then lead the way, my lady.”

\--

By the time they make it to the library, the tension is so thick Tyrion’s sure he could cut it with a knife. Brienne hasn’t spoken since they left the dining room, and her shoulders are far too tense with her arms clasped tightly behind her back.

He clears his throat as she shuts the door behind them. “The size of this place is the only thing that makes me miss King’s Landing.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “I wouldn’t go back there for all the money in the world.”

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t mind,” He postulates aloud, scanning the room for a decanter, “Then, your legs are three times as long as mine.”

She huffs. “I didn’t come here to speak of King’s Landing.”

No, but he certainly wishes she had. He’s liking the direction of the conversation less and less as she continues to speak.

_Ah, wine. _

“Then what did you come to speak of?” He queries, making his way to the decanter and wine glasses he'd spotted.

“Sansa.”

He pauses briefly in his pouring before resuming. “What about her?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Lannister,” She says as he picks up the full glasses. “I saw you at dinner.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.” He says, offering her the glass.

She takes it reluctantly. “She’s been through enough, far too much for a girl her age. She doesn’t need you pawing and leering at her, too.”

“I have no intention of _pawing at her_, Lady Brienne.”

“Your behavior at dinner says otherwise.”

He huffs, exasperated. “Despite popular belief, I am, in fact, a man. I’m sorry about my behavior tonight, but you must be able to acknowledge that the outfit they paraded her in made things difficult. But I’m certainly not planning on touching her, if that’s your concern.”

She shifts her jaw. “If I find out that you’ve laid a finger on her-“

He raises a hand. “You’ll gut me and string me up? I have no intention of bedding my wife, and even less inclination towards death. Don’t worry.”

She nods sharply. “As long as we understand each other.”

“We most certainly do.” He sips his wine. “I know what people say about me, but forcing myself on a woman isn’t something I’d find particularly enjoyable. Or honorable, even with the lack of respect I have for the concept.”

Brienne sets down her still-full glass. “She’s good, you know. Too good for you.”

He can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes him at that. “I’m but a means to an end for her, my lady, and I don’t disillusion myself to be anything else. I know that I’m not worthy to be her husband in true.”

“You’re not all _that_ bad,” Brienne says. “And I don’t think Lady Sansa thinks so, either. I just want you to know that you’ve had tremendous luck.”

_Yes, what luck. Married to the most beautiful woman in the world and unable to even look at her._

“I know.” He says instead.

\--

He purposefully stays in the library until he’s sure Sansa _must_ be asleep; the last of the servants went to bed hours ago by the time he shuts the last set of records he’d wanted to examine.

So he’s quite surprised when he opens the door to his chambers and finds his wife awake with a book in her hand in his bed.

“Sansa?”

“I was wondering if you were planning to sleep in the library just to avoid me.” She says, putting her book down.

“I wasn’t avoiding you.” He says, ruffling through his drawer for a sleep shirt.

She waves a hand. “That doesn’t matter. You’re sleeping beside me tonight.”

“I’m not.” He says, going behind the divider to change.

“Yes, you are.” She insists, and he can imagine what she looks like: mouth set, eyes ice-cold, arms crossed.

“There’s no need for it.”

She huffs in frustration. “Did you see the maid this morning?”

He’d nearly forgotten about that.

He grabs his dressing gown and shrugs it on. “She seemed lovely.”

“She _seemed_ surprised to find a husband sleeping on a settee while his wife sleeps alone on a bed big enough for _five_ people."

He finally leaves the protection of the divider to meet his wife’s glare. “I don’t care what she thinks.”

“You’re right, what _she_ thinks doesn’t matter. But what Missandei and Grey Worm think, what Daenerys will think when she returns _does_. What will they think of a marriage where the husband won’t sleep within 10 feet of his wife?”

“I can handle them.” He insists, arranging his furs.

“_Tyrion_.” She says, and her voice is pleading enough that he meets her eyes.

“Do you really want to share a bed with a dwarf, Sansa?”

She purses her lips. “I _want_ to share the bed with my husband. I _want_ to be allowed to live here when the Dragon Queen returns. I _want_ to have something to stop anyone from trying to marry me off ever again. And since _you_ refuse to perform your husbandly duties, I should think this is the least you could do!”

“You’re being unreasonable!” He shouts, patience snapping.

“_I’m_ being unreasonable? I’m asking you to sleep in your own bed next to your wife! You don’t even have to touch me!”

“I don’t want to!”

“I don’t care!” She shouts back, jumping up out of the bed and stalking towards him. “The only protection I have here is as your _wife_. Without that, I may as well go back to Littlefinger!”

(It’s the wrong time, but with her chest heaving, face flushed pink, hair wild and free around her face—Tyrion’s never seen a woman look so beautiful in his _life_.)

He shakes his head to clear the traitorous thought away and tries to calm his voice. “I could have the maid stop coming in the mornings.”

She crosses her arms again. “And have her only interaction with the two of us be seeing us sleeping on opposite sides of the room? No.”

He glances at the bed taunting him. She’s not wrong—his bed is huge. Far too big for him, and definitely big enough to avoid touching each other.

“We’re still not lying together.” He warns her.

“Fine,” She snaps, but he can see the relief in her eyes. “Just come to bed.”

And, gods help him, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we think?


End file.
